Red on red
by Daenar
Summary: Never take your best friend to an art exhibition...


'RED ON RED' or 'NEVER TAKE YOUR BEST FRIEND TO AN ART EXHIBITION'  
  
Author: Daenar Category: Humor, Romance (H/M) Rating: PG Disclaimer: JAG is property of CBS and Belisarius Productions, CBS and Paramount, no copyright infringement intended.  
  
Author's note: I had the idea to this little vignette while I was watching the most hilarious theater play the other day. Please, don't get me wrong, I'm a sucker for classic modern art - but it must merit to be called 'art'.  
  
Many thanks to Heather for beta-reading!  
  
__________________________________  
  
Out the windows, the rain was falling without interruption. Thick, heavy gray clouds were covering the sky. The sun had no chance today.  
  
There was no sun either inside the soul of Lieutenant Colonel Sarah Mackenzie. It was an ordinary Saturday morning. She had been out with Jingo, shivering in the cold and wet air that seemed to want to deny the fact that it was supposed to be spring. She was done with her cleaning. She had been to the shopping-center and back, having bought a few groceries. She had no files to go over during the weekend as she had neatly wrapped up two cases the day before. Her TV was broken. She felt no inclination to read. Sarah Mackenzie was bored and lonely. She was merely staring out of the window, counting on her inner clock to tell her when the day would be over.  
  
In another apartment across town, clouds were hanging equally low, darkening the mood of Commander Harmon Rabb, Jr. He had finished sweeping the floor and dusting the bookshelves. It would be pointless to clean the windows in this rain. The kitchen cupboards that had needed painting were finished as well. Mac had been so damn efficient yesterday that there were no cases left to go over during the weekend. Flying was out of the question. Harm was listlessly thumbing through his Washington Post, sighing. He felt lonely. And life was as boring as hell!  
  
Somewhere halfway through the feature pages, a small article caught Harm's attention. "The first shooting-star of 21st century modern art - reviewers predict a glorious future for Glen Jager," Harm read aloud to himself. "Glen Jager, creative arts student at the renowned Michael H. Barstow College of Arts, has been unanimously chosen as the winner of the annual Michael H. Barstow memorial scholarship. The jurors justified their choice by explaining that Jager, who has not yet shown a special inclination to a specific art movement, succeeds in captivating his viewers by showing an extraordinary amount of innovative creativity throughout his manifold works. His current exhibition at the private Warkman Gallery in Georgetown offers art lovers a first impression..." Georgetown. Harm grinned. Suddenly he had been hit by an idea what he might as well do on a day like today.  
  
She picked up on the third ringing. "Mackenzie." Her voice sounded dull.  
  
"Hold back your enthusiasm, Marine."  
  
"Hi, Harm." She still sounded bored.  
  
"Whatcha doing?"  
  
"Nothing special."  
  
"That much, huh?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
Harm frowned. His partner seemed to be in a particularly sunny mood today. "Are you okay?"  
  
"Yeah. Bored and lonely, but... yeah, I'm okay, I guess."  
  
'Oh, more than three words. That's a good sign.' "Wanna go out?"  
  
"To do what exactly?"  
  
"There's an art exhibition in Georgetown, two blocks from your apartment, actually."  
  
"Sounds fun." It sounded more like 'dentist'. Nevertheless, Harm took her up on her positive reaction.  
  
"I'm on my way."  
  
"Fine." She hung up.  
  
With upraised eyebrows Harm stared at the receiver for a couple of seconds. 'Brace yourself, Hammer,' he told himself upon hanging up, 'A moody Marine is potentially dangerous.' Still, the prospect of spending some time with Mac made a small sunray break through the clouds inside his mind. Smiling to himself, he grabbed his umbrella and left the apartment.  
  
An hour later, Mac and Harm were strolling across the large loft Warkman's used for modern exhibitions. Harm was already beginning to think that this might have been a very bad idea and was seriously pondering in his heart whether or not to offer Mac a Beltway burger in compensation. 'I've never understood art reviewers, and although I keep trying, I'm afraid I never will,' he thought, defeated.  
  
Glen Jager had turned out to be a failure indeed. At first, Harm and Mac had tried to fight their prejudices that had instantly started to build up upon seeing the public. The average viewer was the very essence of 'the intellectual' in the worst sense of the word. Harm, being familiar with art galleries and their public through his mother's business and claiming to know at least a little about painting and sculpture, knew this specific type of art lover. Long, mostly greasy hair, old and sloppy clothing, thick reading glasses that sat low on their noses. Therefore, their heads were lifted up at an angle of 30 to 45 degrees while they were scrutinizing every single spot of paint or splinter of sculpturing material, always keenly aware of the existentialist undercurrent and apocalyptic tendency that a blue spot on white cardboard usually held.  
  
More than once Mac had questioningly turned and looked up to him, silently begging him to enlighten her why Jager would, for instance, pin half-burnt cigarettes on a dirty kitchen towel, let tupperware bowls melt, only to let them find their final rest in an inflatable children's swimming basin or call an iron-something 'Fallen Angel' when all she could see was that the original object must indeed have fallen down from at least the tenth floor of some downtown office building, being completely disfigured by the impact.  
  
After a little while, silly commentaries were all that could possibly make up for the five dollars they had each spent on their tickets. And every artifact they came across caused even fiercer snorts and giggles than its predecessor. They became aware that people were beginning to frown at them and shake their heads at their obvious lack of culture. So they tried to stifle their laughter and limited their reaction to exchanging extremely amused glances. There was at least one thing they had to concede Glen Jager: he had been very successful in lightening their spirits.  
  
At a certain point Mac found herself unable to refrain from testing out the limits of people's indulgence regarding the 'unenlightened'. She took a firm stand in front of a huge painting that, except from where she was standing, could be seen only from its backside. "Harm," she said, raising her voice from 'gallery' to 'bullpen' level, "Come over, this is amazing!"  
  
Feeling people's indignant stares on his back, Harm hid his grin and, with an extremely 'intellectual' expression on his face, came to stand next to his partner, pretending to study the painting.  
  
Mac made no attempt at lowering her voice as she went on. "This is pure painted passion, incredible, don't you think?"  
  
He instantly played along. "Right. You can actually see what's going on in their heads. Wow."  
  
Mac stepped closer to her partner, pointing her finger at the painting. "Look. The expression on her face. It is obvious that she must have wanted him for a long time." An elderly lady looked up from the exhibition catalogue she had been reading, listening curiously.  
  
"Yeah, right. You can see that in the way she has her arm around his neck," Harm went on, his eyes never leaving the picture, his expression perfectly professional.  
  
"It's as if she had to pull him down against his will, though," Mac ventured, feigning a closer look, frowning.  
  
"No, I don't think so," Harm instantly objected, trying to examine the same spot on the canvas that Mac was currently looking at. "I think he's... well... overwhelmed and scared by her offer, but this is definitely what he always wanted."  
  
To her astonishment, Mac felt her heart rate accelerate slightly. 'Don't go there, Mackenzie, you are just making fun of a colored canvas and the people paying to look at it,' she scolded herself. She ran a hand through her hair to hide her momentary confusion and hurried to answer him. Her reply didn't exactly smooth the waters, though. "Then why does he still seem reluctant to comply? Look at the tension in his body. No passionate lover would feel so uneasy with his love lying in his arms."  
  
'God, it's hot in here.' Harm with his hand wiped his neck and forehead, inhaling heavily. Then he again looked at the canvas. He wasn't aware that his voice was lower and a little hoarse when he spoke. "I told you. Look at his face. He is scared. Scared about the consequences and about the enormity of his feelings. It's probably their first time. I see the tension you pointed out, but I'm sure it's because he's anticipating what is about to happen, unable to believe his fortune that they finally got together. And he's probably afraid that he could lose her if this thing doesn't work out. He knows he couldn't live if he lost her. That's why he's got this reluctant expression on his face, don't you think?" He resisted the urge to turn and look at her, swallowing.  
  
Her voice was gentle and understanding and yet full of unbelieving joy. "But look at her, Harm. She's so overwhelmed that, after such a long time, she has finally understood that he loves her back. She would never leave him now. Do you see how Jager painted the way she opens her arms to him? It's supposed to say: 'Let go of your lifeline. I'm here to catch you when you fall. Trust me.'"  
  
She gave a start when she felt his fingers intertwine with hers. "I do," he whispered, squeezing her hand, trembling slightly.  
  
Not needing any more words, they left the gallery.  
  
And while, only a few blocks away, two lovers finally found the courage to overstep the last physical boundary that had been separating them from one another, back in Warkman's loft an elderly lady incredulously stared at a huge canvas that was just plain red.  
  
  
  
THE END 


End file.
